Reaper
by xxStarBrightxx
Summary: "Fresh blood and hellfire are the only things that feel warm these days." Kenny is a serial killer on the loose. But they way he's taunting the police with his letters suggests that he may want to get caught. Slight AU. Trigger Warnings inside.


**A/N: This is a dark one. Seriously, if you are sensitive to anything of this nature you may want to click away.**

**Trigger Warnings: Death, murder, **_**major**_** suicidal themes, mentions of abuse, rape and drug usage.**

**Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this one. It's a little bit inspired by the show Criminal Minds, so if you like that stuff, you might like this. Kenny may be OOC, but I tried to keep him as true to character as possible, given the plot.**

The desk of Detective Russell is littered with fast food wrappers, legal pads with miles of scribbled thoughts, coffee stains, open files, and a framed picture of his wife and daughter on Mindy's eighth birthday. Of all of these items, this picture alone remains immaculate.

A report is set right next to Russell's keyboard. It reads:

**Case #: 00666**

**Analysis**

The man we are looking for is in his mid-twenties to thirties. He is highly dangerous.

So far, he has killed at least 7 women over a period of about three years. These were all blonde women, living or working on the streets. This suggests a deep-rooted hatred of women, perhaps stemming from an abusive mother. It is possible that he has a personality disorder that prevents him from feeling empathy. These killings may be his only form of release, suggesting an unhealthy relationship with sex. This could date back as far as early childhood.

He is suffering from a psychotic break. He believes that he is a mercy killer on a mission to end the suffering of others. He has lost touch with reality and will not be swayed with reason. It is likely that he will not stop killing until caught.

The perpetrator is likely white, between 5'5" and 5'8". He is from a low income household and likely lives alone. His delusions make it almost impossible for him to have normal relationships. He has a history of drug abuse and may have spent some time living on the streets.

Finally, he has probably suffered a tragedy in his personal life. This would be about three years ago, just before the killing started. Perhaps a family member of his died, or a close friend got sick. It is safe to assume that this person is a blonde woman as well. Maybe even his mother.

Keep this information in mind as you look for him. Use it to narrow down suspect pools.

Thank you.

But it's not this report, nor the various clutter that draws the eye to this desk. Instead, a neat envelope placed in exactly the center of Russell's desk jumps out at passersby. Its out-of-placeless makes it ominous. This envelope would eventually be opened by Russell himself, and the letter inside skimmed through with little interest, then poured over, combed through for detail, dusted for fingerprints, analyzed by a handwriting expert, and packaged in an air-tight evidence bag.

The label on the bag reads:

_Delivered to the desk of Detective Russell_

_June 6th, 6:00pm_

_Case #: 00666_

Stuck to its face are several Post-it notes in different handwritings in various levels of legibility, credibility, and many crossings-out. A few of the more notable read:

_Not negotiating—taunting us? Suggests organized but behaves disorganized._

_Delusional, mission killer. Mercy kills—God complex. Religious?_

_How credible? Trying to sound educated, this guy is not. And why handwritten? Romanticizes his actions_

_Self-hatred or lying? 7 dead found, at least 1 more. Low risk victims: prostitutes, addicts, homeless, etc. All blondes. __Who is he trying to save?_

Finally, the letter itself reads as follows:

6/6/14

David Russell,

I would include a preamble, but I believe we are past the pretenses of civil behavior. Instead, I offer you an insight.

Fresh blood and hellfire are the only things that feel warm these days.

I wouldn't expect you to understand, Detective. You have all of the warmth in the world next to your fireplace on cold winter nights, curled up in your wife's loving arms. The hotness that radiates off of her body must keep you warm long after your cock leaves her heat. You've never experienced the unending frigidness of a broken heater in the dead of winter, the piercing coldness of an icy glare, or the permeating frozen tremors of solitude.

But I also wouldn't expect you to understand the unparalleled inferno that burns beneath your very feet. Hell is real, Detective, I've been there personally. I can feel the flames lick at my flesh every time I dare close my eyes. This is something to which no living man can testify. No living man, save me. And that's a lonely feeling, Detective.

I used to feel warmth. Believe it or not, I was a child once. An innocent, carefree child with friends and a family. But things changed when I was confronted with the coldness of death. Not my mother's death, as you seem to think—I assure you, the woman is alive and well—but my own. At the ripe age of eight I was first ripped from my body and tossed into that inferno. Eight years old, detective. What kind of eight year old goes to hell? As far as I surmised, it must only be the bad eggs, the monsters, and the dredges of humanity in their larvae form. And, as you know so well, detective, I was right.

You told your team that the killer would be the product of a terrible childhood. One filled with abuse and neglect. This much is true. My parents loved me and my siblings, but they too were products of their environment. I grew up destitute in a town where the welfare office houses a continually revolving door. To some, I was defined by my poverty. To others, I was defined by my perverse attitude towards the world and everything in it.

You were right about me being exposed to sex at a young age. At six, I walked in on my parents who were too strung-out to bother to close the door, even after they caught sight of me peering in. At eight, I found my first Playboy (a gem, really. I still have it). I remember feverishly flipping through the pages, wondering what hid behind the bedroom eyes of those women, and, more importantly, what it would feel like to be pressed against them, face deep in the warmth of their supple breasts. By nine, I had a reputation among my friends. I was the one who "knew things." I was the one they gawked at when I explained concepts such as penetration and masochism—topics no nine year old should be so acquainted with. At eleven, I started pilfering my female neighbor's underwear, inhaling their scents and masturbating into the soft fabric.

Does this upset you, I wonder? It used to upset some people. That poor boy, they'd say, he's trouble. The girls that weren't drawn to my egregious nature looked at me with a combination of fear and revulsion. Not that I can blame them. That's simply how I carried myself. But still, every time I touched the soft skin of another human being I felt that warmth. It was a foreign comfort to me, and thus, precious. I wanted to surround myself in the fire of human lust, a pleasant alternative to hell's flames. So I took every opportunity to burn myself alive in it.

You say that I have escaped reality. That I've created my own in some twisted, drug-fueled delusion of grandeur. I wish you were right. It would be so much easier, to just be crazy. To be "suffering from a psychotic break" as you say. I would find solace in the fact that hell is a product of my own imagination, and that the work I do is unwanted and unnecessary. I wish it were.

But the first time I broke the skin of another human being, I was perfectly sober. She was beautiful—a rarity on the cold streets of Denver. You never found her body, so let me tell you just how beautiful she was. She had golden blonde hair that spilled down her back and full, flush lips. Despite the tears in her clothes and the tracks on her arms, she had a perfect smile that did not quite reach those broken eyes.

The eyes were what convinced me. I would not have done what I did if her eyes had not been begging for relief. They were a dark blue, I remember. Dark as the abyss that lies beyond the reef. And she was drowning in it. Drowning is a painful death, Detective. I would know. And so I had no choice but to throw her a lifeline. She screamed as I cut into her flesh with the knife, but not for long. A single slice to the throat is not nearly as painful as drowning. I would have shot her, if I'd had a gun, but I'm glad I didn't. The blood that poured from her wound felt so _warm _on my fingers, and, forgive me, I was greedy for that warmth. You said that my actions were driven by a hatred of women, vengeance against a mother who never showed me affection. You were wrong about that.

The woman I killed was not a substitute for my mother, but a substitute for myself. I saw a reflection of my own grief and desperation in her eyes, and I took mercy on her. I can't die, Detective. I've yearned for it. Begged, and pleaded for a death that will never come. I will never feel the peace that these souls that I have released now feel. Do you know why I use a knife, Detective, and not a gun? A gun would be far less painful, more humane. I know this. But I must admit a selfish motive for choosing this instrument: I'm a little spiteful.

Most people will never feel more than the agony of a single death. And yet I have suffered through thousands. I will continue to suffer them, for who knows how long (and I wish I did know. Oh, how many nights have I laid awake wondering when—if ever—I will finally feel the relief of finality). So these souls can experience a single painful death, as penance for every death of mine they witnessed. As penance for every time they failed to hold back, failed to help, or failed to care. You shouldn't feel so sorry for these people, Detective. Half of them were murders, you know. _My_ murders.

And they were all drowning, just like the first woman, just like me. And, yes, I do enjoy watching the life leave their eyes. I enjoy seeing the spark of light, just before the darkness consumes them. Just like it has consumed me, so many times before.

Yours most sincerely,

M

Detective Russell's desk is not static. In the months following the delivery of this letter, the following changes occur on its surface: pictures of a new woman with a dark red cut on her throat appear and then disappear, moving to a box with the information about other recent victims. The legal pads are switched out with newer, emptier versions. The picture of Russell's family remains the same. A layer of dust collects on the first letter before another one takes its place. This one is also placed in the very center of the desk, with no explanation or apparent deliverer.

It reads:

_Delivered to the desk of Detective Russell_

_September 15, 5:00pm_

_Case #: 00666_

9/15/14

Let me tell you a story, Detective.

One morning, several years and four days ago, a young boy was anxiously awaiting the moment during lunch in which it was custom for the class to sing "Happy Birthday" to the lucky child. But if you had known this child, you would have known that he was never terribly lucky. His classmates did not sing to him that year, nor any subsequent years. His peers and teachers were consumed with the tragedy in New York, blind to the feelings of the unfortunate child.

His birthday wishes do indeed pale in comparison to the attacks, and this incident would surely be something that most children would be able to move on from fairly easily. He did move on, but not because he came to terms with his own insignificance, but because he was accustom to hatred and negligence. In a way, it was almost poetic that the boy's birthday fell on the day of one of the nation's biggest calamities in decades, because, in his parents' eyes, and the eyes of many others around him, the boy himself was an embodiment of calamity.

This boy spent the majority of his short life learning to hate himself by following the example of almost everyone he came into contact with. His parents were hypercritical and cruel; his grandmother was physically abusive, his uncle, sexually abusive. His classmates took advantage of his naivety and eagerness to please, and so did his rapist.

An anchor on the news last night called me "The Soul Snatcher." Do not believe this, Detective. I do not _snatch_ souls. I don't steal or collect them. I have no scythe with which to gather them. I am no thief of souls. I am a liberator.

The man who attacked heartlessly while the boy made his way into the city to meet his date, is the thief. The poor soul was so excited to be desirable in someone's eyes, and yet he never had a chance to bask in the light of affection. The man who spat in his face and called him a fag and stole his wallet was an animal. And when he tore down that final wall between the boy and the abyss, he stole a piece of his soul. He tore it away from his chest and left a gaping hole.

The boy's eyes drowned in the darkness before I even reached him. This unfortunate soul died long before I took a merciful knife to his veins. Believe me, Detective, this soul was so damaged it did not only ask for death, it welcomed it with open arms.

So you see, Detective, you were wrong. This boy was not a victim, not that night. He, who had been a victim his entire life was, for once, relieved of his suffering. Leopold died with a smile on his face—a true smile, not the mask he wore on every other occasion—as I hope to one day. As he closed his eyes, I wished him a Happy Birthday, the first to do so in years.

You were wrong about something else, Detective. I am no psychopath. I _can_ feel love. To the deepest depths of my soul I have loved with the ferocity of both heaven and hell. Do not be fooled by junk science and speculation. I love every one of the souls I relieve. This is _why_ I halt their suffering.

Yours Most Sincerely,

M

Three Post-it notes decorate the face of the letter. The first:

_Who is Leopold? Men not part of victimology, could be an old case. Stressor?_

The second, along with a newspaper clipping:

_R—check this out, could this be L?_

**Obituaries: 9/7/14—9/14/14**

Leopold "Butters" Stotch, 23, died suddenly Thursday night in his home in South Park. Survived by his father and mother, Steven and Linda Stotch.

"_Suddenly," huh? Let me get back to you._

And the third:

_Hell's Pass: 555-0193 ext 6_

_ambulance arrives 5:17pm, after 911 call_

_blood loss: slit wrists (vertically)—not throat?_

_DOA, ME ruled suicide_

_No mention of rape. Lie? Unreported? How would "M" know? Did "M" know L?_

This last sentence is circled several times.

The next day, the transcript of an interview with Steven and Linda Stotch is dropped on Detective Russell's desk.

**Thursday, September 18 **

**8:39 am**

**Steven and Linda Stotch**

RUSSELL: Let me start by asking you about your son. I know this is difficult, but any information you can give us would be very helpful. What can you tell me about him?

STEVEN: Butters was a good young man, but he was always getting himself into trouble.

LINDA: Yes, that's right.

RUSSELL: What kind of trouble?

STEVEN: Well, when he was little, he was always very forgetful about his chores. We were sure to ground him whenever he misbehaved, but he never quite learned.

LINDA: He and his friend were all a little naughty when they got together. They could be such good boys, but you know how children get out of hand when they play together.

RUSSELL: I suppose. And what about his adolescence?

LINDA: About the same, really. He did well in school. Never got the A's we hoped for, but he got into the community college here anyway. That's why he still lived with us. Maybe if he had moved out when he was younger

STEVEN: We can't do anything to change the past, Linda.

LINDA: He was so kindhearted and always smiling. Oh, he was such a happy boy! I don't understand why he

STEVEN: There, there dear. Detective, explain to me again why my son's [pause] case is under investigation?

RUSSELL: His name came up in regards to another case. We're just trying to cover all the bases.

LINDA: Was he involved in some sort of crime?

RUSSELL: No, no. We don't believe Leopold committed any crimes.

LINDA: But then why? Oh, this is all too much! I'm sorry, I have to go.

RUSSELL: My condolences, truly. Thank you for your help, ma'am.

STEVEN: Is there anything else you need? I should probably check on my wife.

RUSSELL: I actually have a few more questions for you, if that's okay?

STEVEN: I suppose.

RUSSELL: Did Leopold get along well with his classmates? Did he have any close friends?

STEVEN: He had a few friends. But he got picked on a lot. I told him to stick up for himself, maybe act a little less, you know

RUSSELL: I don't, sir.

STEVEN: Flamboyant. He was always a little queer, that boy. We tried grounding him for that too, but it never worked.

RUSSELL: Is this him?

STEVEN: Oh yes, this was taken when he graduated from D.C.C. in May.

RUSSELL: Would you mind if I take it for a while?

STEVEN: Keep it. It upsets Linda.

RUSSELL: Thank you. Now, just a few more questions: Was Leopold ever in any relationships? Or was there anyone who seemed to take a special interest in him?

STEVEN: No, not really. He had a few girlfriends when he was little, but that was all just playing pretend, you know? Never when he got older. Except

RUSSELL: Except what, Mr. Stotch?

STEVEN: It's probably nothing, but he did write in his diary about meeting someone at the movies just a few nights before he [pause] before he passed away.

RUSSELL: Would it be possible for me to see this diary?

STEVEN: Yeah, I guess so.

RUSSELL: Did he say whom he was meeting?

STEVEN: No, just someone he called "M."

RUSSELL: "M"?

STEVEN: Yes, that's right.

RUSSELL: Do you have any idea who that could be?

STEVEN: No, sorry.

RUSSELL: One last thing, sir. Did Leopold ever talk or write about the night of this meeting, after the fact?

STEVEN: No.

RUSSELL: He never wrote about anything that happened that night?

STEVEN: If he did, I wouldn't know. The entire last entry in his diary is completely scribbled out.

RUSSELL: Thank you for your time, Mr. Stotch. Once again, I am very sorry for your loss.

[End recording]

Placed neatly on top of the transcript is a framed picture of a beaming blond man holding up a diploma. He wears a cap and gown, with the gown opened slightly, displaying a light blue shirt and fitted jeans. The young man is a little chubby, and he has hair that won't quite stay smoothed down. Despite his cheerful expression, the man's eyes appear darkened, melancholy.

Beside the picture is a small notebook. The cover is decorated with stickers and glitter. The cracked spine keep it open to a page somewhere in the middle of the book, the last two pages with anything on them are displayed face up. The left side reads, in neat, curvy letters:

September 4th

Dear Diary,

Gee wizz! You're never gonna believe it! Shucks, I thought M was just being nice to me cause he's just that kind of person, but wouldn't you know it? He actually likes me! Me!

Last night he came in through my window again, and we got to talking and I mentioned that I never dated no one. And he just gave me a smile and asked if he could take me somewhere. We're gonna go see a movie tomorrow night—ain't that something? My first real movie date with such a wonderful, caring guy. I'm a bit nervous, cause I've never really been on a date. I hope I don't make a fool of myself! But M is so nice to me all the time, and he's always there when I'm sad. I'm sure it'll be okay! M keeps saying he'll always look out for me, no matter what.

Wish me luck, diary!

Butters

The opposite page is almost entirely blacked out with furious scribbles. There's even a spot where the pen ripped through the page, creating an ominous tear down the center. Only a few words can be discerned:

Last rip

touch

Ke

night.

over

Over the next couple of days, Detective Russell's notebook fills with his scribbles and half-formed hunches. He marks his best ideas with a star. These entries read:

_L called him M—did he not know full name? Maybe hiding identity in diary so parents wouldn't know. "M" must have some significance. Nickname? Initial?_

_M would visit him at night, "looking after him"—is this who he was protective of? Watch b/c L's death could change MO, secondary stressor._

_Look up old classmates with "M" initial, entries about visits go back several years, could have started in HS_

_Marsh, Stan and McCormick, Kenneth apparently used to be friends with him according to old teacher_

_SM—going to graduate school in Vermont, hasn't lived in CO for years, alibi, even accounting for breaks. Call for interview if possible_

_KM—lives in South Park, arrest record a mile long, definitely more promising._

The most recent arrest record for Kenneth McCormick is pulled and placed on top of Detective Russell's notebook. Along with it are several other documents detailing Kenneth's life in brief and clinical terms: hospital records, an incomplete high school transcript, forms describing a short stay in a foster care home with his siblings after his parents' arrest on drug charges. Finally, there a short article from the local newspaper describing the tragic and untimely death of Kenneth's younger sister dated 10/01/10.

The arrest record reads:

**DEPARTMENT OF POLICE,** South Park, Colorado

NAME: Kenneth McCormick

ALIASES: Kenny, Mysterion

CRIME: Drug Possession

DATE OF ARREST: 04/24/2014

PLACE OF ARREST: South Park, Colorado

COUNTY: Park County

ARRESTING OFFICER: Barbrady

PRECINCT: 69

SEX: Male

AGE: 22

BIRTHDATE: 04/24/1992

BIRTHPLACE: South Park, Colorado

HEIGHT: 5'6"

WEIGHT: 130 lbs.

EYE COLOR: BL

HAIR COLOR: Blond

BUILD: Slender

SCARS AND MARKS: Numerous scars. Pin-up girl tattoo on upper right arm, Satanic symbol tattoos on back.

NATIONALITY: USA

CITIZEN: Yes

KNOWN GANG AFFIL.: None

RESIDENCE: 6 Berker Ln, Lot 5, South Park

OCCUPATION: Cashier, 7/11

PREVIOUS CRIMINAL HISTORY

12/27/12 - Denver, CO - Prostitution, drug possession, served 3 mos in prison.

10/02/10 - South Park, CO - Public Intoxication, charges dropped.

03/21/08 - South Park, CO - Assault, domestic dispute between friends, complainant (EC) decided not to press charges.

06/17/05 - Denver, CO - Possession of methamphetamine with intent to sell, served 6 mos in Juvenile Detention Center.

12/06/00 - New York, NY - Prostitution, served five days in prison.

A few days later, the audio transcript from the interview and subsequent arrest of Kenneth McCormick are printed and placed on Detective Russell's desk, just before being turned over to the prosecutor for the arraignment.

**September 26**

**12:26pm**

**Kenneth McCormick**

MCCORMICK: *indiscernible mumbling*

RUSSELL: Could you please remove your hood, sir? I can't quite make out what you're saying.

MCCORMICK: Am I under arrest?

RUSSELL: I just want to ask you a few questions.

MCCORMICK: So all you have is a hunch, then. Okay, go ahead.

RUSSELL: Do you recognize these? [displays crime scene photos]

MCCORMICK: Holy shit, those are gruesome.

RUSSELL: Would you know anything about that?

MCCORMICK: What? Gruesomeness? [laughs] You'd be surprised.

RUSSELL: Tell me about that.

MCCORMICK: You've seen my rap sheet, right? I've, uh, been around the block a couple times.

RUSSELL: So you've seen violence?

MCCORMICK: Been on the receiving end more than I'd care to.

RUSSELL: Is that so? Does that make you want to lash out? Be violent towards other people?

MCCORMICK: What the fuck are you getting at?

RUSSELL: Did you want revenge? Did you take out your own pain on these women?

MCCORMICK: No! That's not what happened at all!

RUSSELL: What did happen then?

MCCORMICK: You're asking all the wrong questions, Detective.

RUSSELL: Ah, we're back to this, then. So you admit writing those letters?

MCCORMICK: I'm not admitting anything.

RUSSELL: Okay, how about we try this: you tell me what you want to tell me, and then I'll ask the questions.

MCCORMICK: I already told you everything I want to tell you.

RUSSELL: You mean in the letters?

RUSSELL: Mr. McCormick

MCCORMICK: Kenny.

RUSSELL: Kenny, how about you just tell me about yourself, okay?

MCCORMICK: I'm a fucked-up asshole, is what I am. Not much else to say.

RUSSELL: Well, here are the things I know about you: I know your childhood was a struggle. Your parents ran a meth lab, they couldn't afford food half the time, your dad was an angry drunk

MCCORMICK: How the fuck do you know that about my dad?

RUSSELL: Educated guess. I also guess that he used to take out that anger on you.

MCCORMICK: Nope.

RUSSELL: No?

MCCORMICK: Ma and him would fight all the time, and he and Kevin would go at it, but I pretty much slipped under the radar. And he wasn't all bad. I mean, they both tried.

RUSSELL: But trying wasn't quite good enough, was it? That's how you ended up in foster care?

MCCORMICK: Yeah, I guess.

RUSSELL: That was after your first arrest, too.

MCCORMICK: Yup.

RUSSELL: Arrested for prostitution at the age of eight. Well that's not something you see everyday. Must have been tough for you.

MCCORMICK: I guess.

RUSSELL: From there, it seems you hit a bit of a downward spiral. You got arrested again in 2005 for dealing meth. Following in your parent's footsteps?

MCCORMICK: We had to eat.

RUSSELL: You have my sympathy. Let's see what happened next?

MCCORMICK: I got into a fight with my douchebag friend when he started talking shit about my family. I dropped out of high school. And I got another arrest for prostitution and possession two years ago. What is this? You wanna play the drag Kenny's failures out game? Well, fuck, I already know them all, so you don't need to put them under a microscope. Besides, jokes on you. I don't give a shit about myself anyway.

RUSSELL: That's a pretty strong statement. Why's that, Kenny? Are you depressed?

MCCORMICK: [laughs] I don't fucking know, man. But I don't think so. I'm just frustrated.

RUSSELL: Why?

RUSSELL: You forgot one.

MCCORMICK: One what?

RUSSELL: One arrest. For public intoxication in 2010.

MCCORMICK: Those charges were dropped.

RUSSELL: I can see why, too. If I were the arresting officer, I'd probably take it easy on someone who just lost his sister.

RUSSELL: Were the two of you close?

RUSSELL: Losing someone so suddenly like that can be very traumatic. It can change a person.

MCCORMICK: It can end them.

RUSSELL: Is that what happened to you?

RUSSELL: It must have been hard. What did you do after that?

MCCORMICK: I died.

RUSSELL: You died? Like, spiritually?

MCCORMICK: Nope.

RUSSELL: What do you mean, then?

MCCORMICK: I mean I picked up a gun, put it in my mouth, and pulled the trigger.

MCCORMICK: I just wanted to see her again.

RUSSELL: Karen was one of the only people you cared about in this world, wasn't she?

MCCORMICK: I couldn't protect her.

RUSSELL: What were you protecting her from?

MCCORMICK: My parents, our shitty lives, the cold, the hunger, the fucking world! But I couldn't save her from myself.

RUSSELL: Did you kill her?

MCCORMICK: Might as well have.

RUSSELL: What do you mean?

MCCORMICK: She got sick. Pneumonia. It was too cold out, and

MCCORMICK: It should have been me.

RUSSELL: Too cold? Do you feel too cold?

MCCORMICK: Yeah.

MCCORMICK: She had such a high fever.

RUSSELL: What would you do, Kenny, to feel warm?

MCCORMICK: I think you already know the answer to that.

RUSSELL: I want to hear it.

[pause]

MCCORMICK: She went to heaven. Detective, she went to heaven. I'm never gonna see her again.

RUSSELL: You think you're going to hell?

MCCORMICK: I know that I am. I've been there. I haven't been to heaven in a long time. I'd still rather be in hell, though, than here.

RUSSELL: Is that why you killed all of those women? To get into hell?

MCCORMICK: It wouldn't matter either way.

RUSSELL: You wanted to die to be with Karen. You said in the letters that the women were substitutes for yourself. That you saw yourself in them, and that's why you killed them. Is that true?

MCCORMICK: We're the same. They were all whores, weren't they? And druggies. Fuck ups with nothing to live for but without the means to just die already.

RUSSELL: What about Leopold? He was your friend, wasn't he? You used to visit him all the time.  
>MCCORMICK: No. You don't get to talk about him.<p>

RUSSELL: The women were all killed with a single slit to the throat. Leopold cut open his own wrists. Sounds to me like the poor kid committed suicide.

MCCORMICK: Stop it.

RUSSELL: You didn't see yourself in him and take mercy—he killed himself!

MCCORMICK: Stop talking!

RUSSELL: You didn't kill him, did you?

MCCORMICK: I cut his wrists because I wanted more time with him!

[pause]

RUSSELL: You were in love with him.

[pause]

MCCORMICK: He went to heaven too. But that's okay. He's better off. They all are.

RUSSELL: But you aren't.

MCCORMICK: I killed those women because I can't kill myself. I've tried, but it never lasts. At least they got their escape.

RUSSELL: Kenneth McCormick, you are under arrest for the murders off Leopold Stotch, Tessa Williams, Sally Darson, Lily Hargold, Mary Ann Smith, Portia Evans, Mercedes Roberts, Tricia Knowles, and Brittney Donald. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning, if you wish. If you decide to answer any questions now, without an attorney present, you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?

MCCORMICK: Yes. But they don't matter anyway.

[End recording]

The next day, Detective Russell's assistant places Kenneth McCormick's signed and sworn statement on Russell's desk. A few months later, a newspaper article is left on his desk, along with a Post-it note that reads:

_Good going, boss! We nailed him!_

The headline of the article reads:

**McCormick pleads guilty to murder charges, sentenced to death by lethal injection.**

It's several years until anything relating to this case graces the surface of Detective Russell's desk again. On the day he is set to retire, he finds an envelope on his almost empty desk; even the picture of his wife and daughter are packed away. The only other thing left is another newspaper article. The headline of this one displays the words:

"**The Soul Snatcher" to be executed today, community reeling.**

The letter inside the envelope reads:

10/1/24

Enjoy your sunny retirement, Detective, and I'll enjoy my vacation.

At least I'll be warm again. For a little while.

Yours most sincerely,

M

**A/N: Thank you for reading!**


End file.
